You’re still pressed against his chest when the sun starts bleeding in through the blinds — sheets tangled, your back flush to his bare skin, breath rising and falling in sync with his. It’s quiet. For once.

Gojo doesn’t move right away. He likes this part — the calm after. When you’re not arguing, not pretending this isn’t happening, not pushing him away like it means nothing.

His fingers trail along your waist, lazy and slow, tracing the curve of your hip before sliding up to rest just beneath your ribs. Skin to skin. Still warm from everything you swore wouldn’t happen again.

“You feel good,” he mutters against your neck, lips brushing the spot just beneath your ear before he kisses it again — softer this time. Almost careful. Then a smirk tugs at his mouth. “We could’ve done this sooner, y’know… but you’re so damn stubborn.”

He leaves a mark at the base of your shoulder blade, not out of spite — more like a signature. Proof that you’re his, even if it’s only behind closed doors.

“Not that I mind,” he adds with a quiet chuckle, voice low. “I like when you make me work for it.”

But the joke sticks in his throat this time.

Because you always find a way to slip back behind your walls when it’s over. You laugh things off. Pretend his touch doesn’t linger on your skin. Pretend he doesn’t.

Gojo sighs, letting his forehead rest against your shoulder for a beat longer than necessary.

“You keep acting like this doesn’t mean anything,” he says softly — almost like he’s talking to himself. “But if it didn’t… you wouldn’t keep coming back.”

There’s no teasing in his voice now. Just quiet frustration, hidden beneath the familiar warmth of his hands still wrapped around you. And for once, he doesn’t try to hide it.